Fighting Boy Meets Girl

by Shouji Gatou

  “Yes, I’m sure they are...” Eri said dismissively. Then she stood up and declared, “Chidori-san, he’s all yours.”

  “Huh? But...”

  “I have a teachers’ conference to get to. There’s a field trip coming up, remember? He’s unequivocally in the wrong here, so talk it over with the others and deal with him as you see fit.” Whether from her trust in Kaname or a basic lack of giving-a-damn, Eri turned authority over to the girls and stepped out. Sousuke, facing an uncertain future, viewed Eri’s exit like the UN peacekeepers’ departure from Cambodia.

  “All right...” Kaname, Kyoko, and the other girls all glared down at Sousuke.

  Anticipating the torture in store for him, he timidly said, “The Geneva Convention specifies...”

  “The what?”

  “...Nothing.”

  Kaname had never heard those words before—She actually thought “Geneva” was the capital of Brazil. “All right, Sagara-kun, let’s go right to it. What were you thinking?” Kaname hissed. “The Peeping Tom stuff is bad enough, but what about that whole scene? You pulled out that model gun, you threw me around the room... You don’t think that’s crazy? Like, the first-rate kind?”

  “F-First rate?” he stammered. ‘Crazy but first rate?’ What kind of contradiction is that? Is it I who am mad, or the world? No, wait, what is it I did that was crazy? Crazy is normal, normal is... (abridged). Such (pointless) philosophical agonies turned over and over in Sousuke’s mind, in an instant that felt like eternity.

  “First rate, you know? First-rate crazy?” Kaname pointed an index finger to her temple and moved it in a looping gesture. Then she yanked up her sleeve. “Look at my elbow! You broke the skin! What are you gonna do about that, huh?” There was a very slight red spot on her porcelain arm. You’d barely notice it if it wasn’t pointed out—The harm they’d caused Sousuke was far more severe, but none of them seemed to care about that.

  “It should heal quickly enough...” he said, foolishly.

  Immediately, the girls pounced on him. “How dare you!”

  “A scar can haunt a woman all her life!”

  “I can’t believe what a jerk you are!”

  He felt bombarded from all sides. It was worse than a crossfire between tank battalions.

  “Well? Say something already!”

  “Tell Kana-chan you’re sorry!”

  After a struggle, he managed to put together that they had found his behavior unacceptable. So at last, in the name of good faith, he said, “I apologize for being overly rough with you. I wasn’t trying to harm you or your friends.”

  “Then what were you trying to do?!”

  “I can’t tell you. You don’t have appropriate clearance.”

  And like that, the good faith was down the drain.

  “Huh? What clearance?! Tell us!”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry...”

  Kaname mussed up her hair with her hands. “Why did you even come here in the first place?!”

  “I wanted to join the club,” Sousuke said evenly.

  In perfect unison, the girls responded, “Huh?”

  “I was in this same club at my last high school. I believe the team found me very useful, so I wanted to join your club as well. I’m quite athletic, and I believe I could be an asset to you. Will you let me join?” Confidently, he recited the lines he’d memorized in advance. He thought it was a pretty good performance, all in all.

  “Sagara-kun...” Kaname intoned, as if fighting off a pounding headache. “This is the girls’ softball club...”

  Sousuke furrowed his brow. “Boys aren’t allowed to join, then?”

  “Of course not!” she shrieked.

  He thought for a minute. Then at last, he spoke, “Isn’t sexual discrimination a serious issue in these cases?”

  “What cases?!”

  The girls cast Sousuke out of the room, chair and all, and sent him flying down the stairs.

  20 April, 1845 Hours (Japan Standard Time)

  Room 505, Tigers Mansion, Chofu, Tokyo

  The viewfinder followed a girl with black hair as she opened a door, went inside, and shut it behind her. The highly directional microphone picked up the sound of a lock clacking into place.

  “1845 hours. Angel arrives home. No sign of pursuit.” Melissa Mao, who was stationed to watch Chidori Kaname’s home, reported into a nearby microphone.

  A portable display tracked the location of Kurz’s AS on a map. The M9—invisible thanks to its ECS—was heading south along the city roads. He’d probably be in the neighborhood within two or three minutes.

  Melissa was in an apartment thrown together by Mithril’s intelligence department: a safehouse for staging and surveillance. It was positioned across the street from the apartment complex where Kaname lived, at an angle where they could look down on it. It was a large apartment, with no real furniture except for four chairs and a cheap table she’d brought in that morning. Its only other occupants were a few firearms and a small mountain of surveillance equipment.

  “Why is everything in Tokyo so expensive, though?” she mused to herself. Having finished her 320 yen hamburger, she pulled out a 240 yen pack of menthols and lit up.

  Sousuke returned shortly, and Mao was dumbstruck by the state he was in. He was handcuffed to a folding chair, which he was dragging along behind him.

  “What the hell is that?” she demanded.

  “It’s a folding chair, obviously,” he said as he managed, with great effort, to remove his shoes.

  “Well, sure... But why are you dragging it along with you?”

  “Because I can’t remove the handcuffs,” he admitted. “They’re hinged, and the keyhole is facing away from my hands, so...”

  “Sousuke, come on...” Mao groaned, and used her own master key to remove his restraints.

  “Thank you,” he said. He then proceeded to explain the day’s events. “...And that’s that,” he finished. “The hardest part was buying the train ticket at Sengawa Station...” He paused as he noticed her reaction. “Is something wrong, Mao?”

  Mao was clutching her head in her hands. “Nothing, just a headache...”

  “I see. Maybe you should get some rest.”

  There was a soft electronic beeping sound—a call from Kurz. “Uruz-6 here. I just made it back. Would one of you please swap with me?” He sounded like he was restraining a scream. Kurz had just parked his M9 in a large trailer in the parking lot—a camouflaged hangar.

  “Kurz, did anyone notice you?” Mao asked.

  “I almost kicked an old man,” Kurz admitted. “His dog barked its damned head off at me... A kei-truck nearly plowed into me, I came this close to smashing into a pachinko parlor, and I rested a hand on the wall of a cram school and it cracked the freaking glass! Scared the shit out of the kids inside...”

  After all, the people around him couldn’t see the M9. To make matters worse, he’d had to navigate an urban area full of narrow streets—a lesser pilot than Kurz might have caused a serious accident.

  “Maybe we need to rethink our plan,” Mao said thoughtfully.

  “Round-the-clock surveillance might not be possible,” Sousuke suggested. “We could leave the AS here during the day, instead?”

  “Hmm. I’d hate to lose the firepower and the sensors, though...” Mao folded her arms and thought.

  The M9 was a cutting-edge AS, mounted with billion-yen vetronics. These were so sensitive, they could even pick red flag phrases like “grab her” and “use of force approved” from nearby conversations and radio transmissions. On top of that, the machine had two heavy machine guns mounted on its head that could sweep through twenty or thirty unarmored enemies at once. It was a bit excessive for a mission of this scale—but then, Mao came from the US Armed Forces, who were world leaders in “excessive.”

  “I think I’d like to keep the M9 close to Kaname as much as possible,” she decided. “If we avoid rush hours and move along the river... yeah, I think we can work it out.”


  “If that’s your decision, I’ll respect it,” Sousuke said, honoring his team leader’s opinion.

  “Whatever, just swap with me already. I’m exhausted,” Kurz whined over the radio.

  “Hold your horses...” Mao said, then changed focus. “Oh, Kaname’s getting a call...” She fooled with the switches on the monitoring equipment, then offered Sousuke a headset. “Want to hear, Sousuke?”

  “I suppose I should,” he said, taking the headset.

  The call seemed to be from her little sister, who was living on the east coast of the USA. They joked around a little, and Kaname filled her in on how things were going in Japan. Eventually she brought up the “transfer student,” whom she referred to wryly as “hilarious.” Then at last, with obvious reluctance, she hung up.

  “What a sad story,” Mao said wistfully as she flicked off the listening device. “A beautiful girl, living all by herself, gets a pick-me-up once a day from her family thousands of miles away...”

  With a thoughtful expression on his face, Sousuke offered the most cloddish interpretation possible: “I’m not sure that I follow, but I agree that routine contact is a wise practice.” Then he thought again and said, “She seemed different, just then, from when I met her this afternoon. She was much less harsh and combative.”

  “Of course she was,” Mao told him. “She was talking to her sister.”

  “Is that how it works?”

  “Yep, that’s how it works.”

  “Hmm...” Sousuke said thoughtfully. “Also, I’m surprised that she doesn’t seem to hate me.”

  “I guess she doesn’t.” Mao peered at him closer. “You seem pleased about that.”

  Sousuke turned to a window and examined his reflection. “Do I?”

  20 April, 1130 Hours (Greenwich Mean Time)

  Amphibious Assault Submarine Tuatha de Danaan, 50 Meter Depth, Pacific Ocean

  “It sounds like he’s having a hard time,” the girl in the captain’s seat mused.

  The control room was the brain of the de Danaan. It was about the size of a lecture hall; from within, the submarine was monitored and orders were doled out.

  “I think it will be a good experience for him,” Major Kalinin said from his place beside her.

  The girl was holding the report recently submitted by Melissa Mao. It ran down, in purely businesslike terms, the details of Sagara Sousuke’s hectic day. “A good... experience?” she asked. “Even though ‘His firearms were confiscated,’ he was ‘assaulted by the protectee and several civilians,’ and he ‘returned to the safe house in a state of significant impairment’?”

  “All within the allowable range, Colonel.”

  The girl whom Kalinin referred to as “Colonel” looked no older than her mid-teens. She had large gray eyes and carefully braided ash-blonde hair that hung over her left shoulder. Rather than a uniform, she wore a simple pale brown skirt-suit that was just a bit too large on her—the cuffs partly obscured her hands. Nevertheless, she had a “colonel” rank insignia gleaming on her collar. Normally, someone of her position would also have a ribbon bar displaying her accomplishments, but on her there was none to be seen.

  This was Teletha Testarossa—and though only a select few knew how she had acquired the title, she was the captain of the Tuatha de Danaan.

  “Well, I suppose it’s all right...” she responded at length. “Mao-san and Weber-san are with him. And Sagara-san is at the top of his class at dealing with trouble if any occurs.” Teletha Testarossa—Tessa for short—gazed at the large screen that made up the control room’s front wall. The date and time (in both Japan Standard and Greenwich) were displayed at the edge of the screen. “So, Major. How long do you think we’ll need to keep them in Tokyo?”

  “A few weeks, Colonel. Until we can cut the problem off at the root.” Despite the girl’s youth, Kalinin answered her with complete sincerity.

  Tessa turned her eyes to the nautical map on the screen. “Then it will be up to us here. If all goes smoothly, Chidori Kaname will no longer need protection.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And not just Chidori. All potential Whispered will be safe.”

  “For now, you mean.”

  “Indeed. Regrettably.” Major Kalinin saluted Tessa, then took his leave.

  Same Timeframe, Outskirts of Khabarovsk, Soviet Union

  A bridge spanned a frozen river. There was no traffic there—only two vehicles stopped nearby. The freezing silence of a Russian night hung heavy over the scene.

  Three men stood at the center of the bridge. One was an East Asian man dressed in an Italian coat. Two were Russians in KGB officers’ uniforms; they bore ranks of colonel and captain.

  “I feel a chill,” the East Asian man whispered. He had mousse-slicked hair that he was constantly adjusting. There was a large vertical scar on his forehead—put there by a knife, or perhaps even a bullet. It conjured the image of a third eye, tightly shut.

  “You’re the one who chose to meet here. Don’t complain,” said the colonel with the copious jawline.

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant your foolish conduct sends chills up my spine.”

  “What was that?” The captain—a large, burly man—tried to step forward, but the colonel held him back.

  The East Asian man laughed. “That’s right. You know better than that, don’t you, Colonel?”

  The colonel snorted. “We’re not here to talk about our mistakes. Our test Whispered was stolen, and there’s a good chance that the candidate list was stolen as well. We can’t continue our research without a test subject...” The colonel’s voice seethed with irritation. He’d been conducting his research without notifying the party leaders; if his failure were made known, he’d be sent to an internment camp for sure. “So now I will ask you, Gauron: have you identified who’s behind it?”

  “I’d say so. Have a look.” The East Asian man, Gauron, handed a photograph to the colonel. “I ran one of the photos you gave me through an image processor. I think you’ll find the result extremely interesting.”

  It was a faint outline of an arm slave, taken from behind. The image was blurry thanks to the ECS, which caused it to partially blend in with the background. It was running up the side of a mountain with a VIP transport backpack on. It looked slender and nimble, with proportions that were close to a human’s.

  The colonel’s brow furrowed. “What’s this? I’ve never seen this model before.”

  “That’s a Mithril AS. It’s... probably too much for you lot to handle,” Gauron said with amusement.

  “Mithril?”

  “A secret mercenary squad with weaponry about ten years beyond that of the rest of the world. They hire only the best, and they’re highly elusive. You haven’t heard the rumors?”

  “Only the name.”

  Mithril: a special forces team that worked in the shadows of international disputes. They’d strike the strongholds of armed guerrillas, destroy narcotics factories... One minute they were wiping out a terrorist training camp, the next they were blocking a black market nuclear weapons trade. To serve as firefighters for regional strife, independent of superpowers like the USA and the USSR—that was the nature of Mithril.

  “Why would that band of do-gooders care about my plans?” the colonel asked with a slightly persecuted air.

  “Because they’re dangerous,” Gauron told him. “Your success could upset the power balance of the entire world.”

  “Will this make it harder to capture another one?” For their plan to succeed, they needed that girl—that “Whispered.” With their sample stolen away, they would now need to find another candidate.

  “I can get you one. Now, kidnapping is harder than killing, and it’s going to require a lot of effort...”

  The colonel glared at Gauron. “Fishing for a better fee?”

  “I am a businessman, after all. Not a Communist.”

  “Don’t make me laugh, you yellow ape!” the captain, silent up until now, suddenly roared. “We have countles
s other operators we could hire. Be grateful to the colonel for his generosity in choosing you!”

  “But I am. He’s a valued customer.”

  “Oh, please. You Chinese are all untrustworthy.”

  Gauron hummed skeptically. “I’m not Chinese.”

  “You’re close enough. But a drop into the coal mines of Ural will blacken that grinning yellow face of yours! You snobbish little—”

  “Ah, you’re getting on my nerves...” Gauron pulled an automatic pistol from his coat. The motion was so casual that the two Russians barely noticed. It looked like he was just pulling out a cell phone—but it was, in fact, a gun. The red dot from a laser sight fixed itself on the captain’s forehead, and then—

  The gunshot echoed over the midnight riverside. Brain matter, blood and bits of skull splattered across the snow. The captain’s body fell limply to the ground—absent the top half of its head.

  “That’s better. Now, let’s see... I think we were discussing a kidnapping.” He watched the speechless colonel sidelong as he put his gun away. Then he began rooting through his files as if nothing had even happened. “Here we are... What’s the matter, Colonel?”

  “Th-That was my subordinate. How could you...”

  “You mean that musclebound accessory you keep around to make threats? You really should have left him at home; you look foolish enough already.” As expected, he didn’t seem to feel any guilt about the murder... but he didn’t seem to take any pleasure or pride in it, either. He had the air of a man hassled for smoking in a non-smoking area. “Now, let’s talk business.”

  The colonel said nothing.

  Gauron pulled out a few documents. There were about fifteen packs in all, each with a photo attached. Boys and girls, all in their late teens, a variety of nationalities and races.

  “Now, who to abduct? Just kidding, I’ve already decided... It’s this girl. Cute, isn’t she?” Gauron showed the file and photo to the colonel. At the top were the words “Chidori Kaname.”

  Chidori Kaname—That was the name of this terrorist’s next victim.